I think about you sleeping
Eyes closed mouth slightly open
Dreams dancing against
A silk sewn backdrop
A breathless manifesto
Of your form figure
The sketch of your lips
Lightly pressed against my
Hope
Drawn towards an
incessant crescendo
Of your smiling spirit
Holding me in the shadow of
Loves creases lightly guiding futures
Hand
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I sing
Noteless melodies
Drunk with reason screaming for
Second chances that life
Is forbidden to offer
Pain’s cold name tattooed
Across the palm of fate
Caresses the face of newborn
Lost love
False images dance amongst corpses
While a Cheshire smile floats over
Remnants of blooming bliss
Forced fragments of memory
Congregate amongst the choir
And sing dully syncopated
Noteless melodies
Thoughts are blind
But they have wings
They soar aloft whispers
Sightless treading air
Warmed by shadows
Fed by teardrops
Flapping soundlesly
With the effort of a child
Laughing in the wind
When out from Egypt south your fathers come
and tear down ev’ry wall from sun to shore,
raise great stone on island of desert will,
when my heart turns at last to long-lost hills
where golden Aethiops awaits one word
to prove it still can give us messiah:
When these two times are one and pharaoh dies
tomorrow, my fathers forever crowned,
only then may it be we two are one.
Glorious is the wrath of love’s arrows quilting a skyfull of swagger piercing a life of nights
I watch whiskey stained lips drip pebbles of half-truths into waiting wanting willing ears
I love this city
Its tragic dissidents, tattooed by concrete dreams lost in a cage of fog
Burdened by a half ton of nothing
Its streets sing lilting mournful tunes
A rhapsody of memory
Lined with guilt sewn silver pillows
On which weary minds slumber uneasily
Its melody takes flight from windowsills
And settles on the shoulders of its children
Only to become lullabies
To soothe the nightmares
Of minor giants
An old soldier in Addis
lay his medals on the street
over a soiled green kerchief.
Not quite begging, he was proud.
My friend took them all in hand,
wrapped them in a wad of cash,
bought the man his dignity.
I turned my head, looked away.
Under the Bronx three rivers run,
lost where my fathers buried them
still-born one hundred years before.
Over they’ve been scabbed with concrete
and old iron grates to keep out
the light, the air, my eyes, my dreams.
They will one day be free again
to beat all their red-blood rhythms,
to bleed our love from open veins.
So why not prick them three times more?
Dump so deep into their darkness
our smack, our junk, my heart, my tears?
Aha!!
The last gasp of a rendered soul
exposed to the elemental force of her fury
I have watched from afar for years my posture governed
only by a finely tuned elixir consisting of
ego faith and anger
I heard the caged bird’s song and I
shot it in the heart
with a poisoned quill
Hands knuckle white gripped
around my own wrists gazing
into an eclipsed memory praying
for a recognizable sliver
of myself to emerge from the smoky dusk
that has settled over
the globe spinning in a narcissistic deity’s palm.
Rituals whispered in corners bless the blank minds
of pawns and the lightning of
Chango illuminates horizons we are
blind to our sight marred by our intellect the
writhing demonic sensation of justice spits brimstone
sonnets at passersby who only count the change in their small pockets
and miss crushing God
between concrete and heels by seconds
The footprints of an apparition
Have shadows
They speak in past tense
In low tones
Like the sound of the final breath of a dream
Blood runs thick through the veins of a closed eye
as heart pumps with the arhythmic pattern of broken wings beating
When did you last pause
in sunlight
Only to recognize the chill present
In the beams on your brow
The cold works its way down your spine
And settles into your faith
Holding it close
With the vigilance of the Madonna
I know weary souls
Who cast spells upon the wanderers
Lost in time
Confused in path
Worshiping dark bliss
Like church pews on an ocean floor
I threw up on a stripper
when I walked the Bronx
to Sin City
but took a wrong turn
at Hunts Point,
got lost at the monastery
and stopped for a 40
where the Tatz Cru writes
on Banknote walls.
By the time I staggered
past the prison ship
and back north
to the rail yard,
the sun and stench
had gone so deep
I could not stand,
and thought it really true
when she spoke her name.
